Free Starfall by Michael Cadnum Page B

attacked some brave warrior – and pinched him to death.”
    â€œThe children, my lord Jupiter,” Mercury began. The boys and girls of mortal men and women –”
    â€œWhat of them?” interrupted the sky god with a darkening frown. He nearly felt like telling the herald to wait for a moment, for beyond the columns of the temple the sunlight was suddenly impossibly bright.
    â€œI fear to voice my tidings,” said Mercury in the finest herald speech, “without a promise from the father of all –”
    â€œWise herald,” said Jupiter with some impatience, “I will not hold you responsible for your news, good or bad.”
    â€œEarth is burning,” said the herald in a burst, anguish in his voice. “Men and women, and their children, cry to you for help.”
    Jupiter looked away, and briefly weighed these tidings. “Herald,” he said, “this cannot be true.”
    But Mercury’s gaze was steady, his youthful-looking features set in an expression of sorrow. And Jupiter groaned, realizing then the meaning of the distant, panicked cries of birds.
    â€œTell me, loyal Mercury,” Jupiter said at last, the gentleness of his tone giving the greater weight to his question. “Who has done this?”

TWENTY-FIVE
    Phaeton clung to the edge of the chariot.
    The horses surged in terror from star to forest, from moon to ocean floor.
    The youth was certain that this day would not end, and that his prayer remained unheard by the immortals. His voice torn, he lifted a final plea at last to Mercury, the divine messenger, repeating a fragment of the old song, quicken my prayer .
    Divine Mercury, do not forget me .
    Jupiter strode to the ridge from which, in the long, peaceful mornings, he so often surveyed the spreading patchwork of the world.
    He had been hoping, despite his growing unease, that Mercury had been mistaken. The herald had a gift for vivid description – surely matters could not be as bleak as he asserted.
    Jupiter was stunned.
    The chief of the gods was shaken to his heart by what he saw, and touched by the cries and prayers that rose up to him from the world of mortals.
    And the god was appalled at the sight of the pitching, careening chariot, a blazing streak of sunlight.
    Jupiter had long admired Phoebus Apollo’s wheeled carriage. Many days, while divine bickering echoed throughout Olympus, Jupiter had often thought how wonderful to do nothing but ride across the sky .
    And how splendid to mingle with beautiful mortals. Jupiter had an eye for mortal women, himself, and would have enjoyed more opportunity to seek their company. That would be an additional benefit of being the sun god – spying women from on high, as they bathed and wandered. Phoebus Apollo had for ages been able to pick out the comely and sweet-natured, and Jupiter had envied him.
    â€œBring me the god of the sun,” growled Jupiter.
    â€œAs you wish, my lord,” said Mercury.
    The herald settled the wide-brimmed hat on his head – but he did not leave at once.
    â€œYou will, perhaps, spare young Phaeton’s life,” suggested Mercury.
    Jupiter’s answer was a scowl.
    Slow to anger though he might be, he had faith in justice. And the lord of sky was angry, too, at himself – that he had not sensed this calamity before this moment, lost in his own thoughts.
    The chief of the gods flexed his fingers. He lifted his fist and sent a flash, a javelin of blue lightning, toward the chariot of the sun as it ascended again, horses shrieking as Phaeton reeled.
    One moment the son of Phoebus Apollo braced himself for another lunge of the chariot. Soon, he knew, the chariot would rise so high he would grow senseless from the thin air and fall. Nothing could spare the earth from harm, he knew – it was too late.
    The chariot was at its highest point that seemingly endless morning when Phaeton heard it coming, for an instant, that crackling blue